Fire In The Blood
by MRHolliday
Summary: My first try at fanfiction. More chapters to follow. Based on Red/ Lizzie, romance maybe to follow.
1. Chapter 1 - Potsdam

CHAPTER 1

The inside of his hotel room was dark and quiet. He had slept hard and dreamlessly, wrapped tightly in a sheet and blanket, still wearing the soiled clothing from the night before. His grey wool overcoat was hanging from a hook on the wall with his muddy pair of winter boots placed neatly on the floor beneath. Down the hall, a housekeeper was moving slowly from room to room. He listened to the movements as he awoke slowly, listening as the cleaning cart moved onto another room, the sound of a door shutting behind it.

Red's eyes were wide open now, though he hadn't yet moved a muscle. His mind was still hazy with sleep, but in a quick moment he remembered where he was. Potsdam, Germany. Damn, he cursed softly. He glanced at the night table and passed over a bottle of whiskey, fumbling for his watch. It was just after eight a.m. He rolled over carefully and sat up, reaching for the small laptop under the edge of the bed. He stood up and retrieved the whiskey bottle from the night table on his way into the bathroom.

Opening the laptop, he powered it up by the sink as he looked into his own eyes in the mirror, squinting as he assessed himself for visible injuries on his face. Satisfied, he carefully pulled off his dark sweater, shirt, and undershirt all at once, wincing in pain despite the care he took. A dark bruise appeared low on the left side of his chest, and he felt carefully along his ribs. In his experience, the greater the pain, the greater the likelihood that his ribs were bruised and not broken. He leaned and looked closer in the mirror, further down along his side. The thick bandage he'd taped there was dried with a fair amount of blood. Carefully, he pulled the tape and bandage away, wincing again. Reaching in to the shower, he turned on the water, letting it run hot before he stripped and stepped in. The water felt good on his tired and bruised body, and he was in no hurry as he scrubbed himself clean.

Once out of the shower, a towel folded around his waist, he glanced at the computer screen and hit another key to establish a satellite connection, knowing it would take time. It was worth the time; the various protocols in place would conceal his whereabouts. He shaved while his body dried, then sat down and turned the computer screen in his direction, busying himself as he pulled out several items from his toiletries bag: cotton balls, gauze bandages, surgical tape. He had no disinfectant, and so he poured the strong whiskey over the knife wound and gritted his teeth as it burned.

The laptop lit up in the corner of his eye and he tapped a few keys to retrieve messages. He studied the wound for a moment, and grimaced as he collected the needed items to stitch himself up. It took only a few stitches, and his inspection didn't reveal the wound to be substantially deep. He bandaged himself up well, loaded the articles back into the small bag, and walked with the laptop back into the main room.

The news was not encouraging. Things were happening fast, and his current window of opportunity was quickly closing. The latest information placed Elizabeth Keen traveling to Leipzig with the search for her on at this moment, although the focus appeared to be incorrectly focused in Prague. A cryptic message from Dembe indicated he'd need to contact him sooner rather than later. He shut the laptop off and cursed softly under his breath. She thought she was alone, completely on her own, and this thought troubled him most of all. Time was now of the essence. He needed to find her immediately and get her out of the area and back into the States as quickly as possible. In the back of his mind, he was working the puzzle of their exit out, not allowing himself to consider the possibility that he would fail to locate her first.

Red had to stop and remind himself from time to time that Lizzie, even thinking she was alone, was more than capable of handling herself. She was quick on her feet and acted with intelligence and efficiency. It was his own fear that made him uneasy. His connection to her was, very often, all he had left of real worth to him. There was so very much left to be done, and so very, very much to be said; to share with her. His real fear was losing her to an unseen hand at work. How ironic; as it was usually he who was, so often, that very unseen hand.

Moving now with a sense of purpose, he dressed quickly; pulling on a long sleeved cotton undershirt, followed by buttoning up one of his typically finely tailored dress shirts paired with a matching silk tie. The pair of jeans, atypical for his preferred style of dress, followed, then wool socks and his boots, quickly cleaned of dried mud. He removed an empty holster from his leather belt and retrieved a small Ruger LC9 from under the pillow, thumbing the safety on and fastening it into the holster securely. He wrapped the weapon in his soiled shirt from the day before and deposited it into the tourist backpack along with his small laptop and toiletries bag. He covered the items with the dark sweater. The backpack was light, and it didn't appear full, which is what he wanted.

He slipped on his navy suit jacket, checked that his wallet and passports were tucked into the inner breast pocket and found the emergency throwaway cell phone still in the side pocket. He folded everything else into his larger duffel bag with his extra clothing and, at the sound of the housekeeper moving into another room, he opened the door quietly as he pulled on his wool overcoat and scarf, his fedora dropping onto his head. With the tourist backpack over one shoulder and the duffel bag in his opposite hand; he disappeared quickly down the hallway.

The hotel had been quiet and warm inside but he felt more at home out on the frigid street. He pulled his overcoat collar up on his neck and blew into his cupped hands, lighting a cigarette before taking out his gloves and pulling them on. Red started down the street, snow crunching under his boots. Glancing both ways along the street, exhaling cigarette smoke, he opted for the leisurely route, his walk purposefully unhurried. He didn't care for cigarette's, but it was a useful tool to stand still and survey his surroundings nonchalantly.

Taking a taxi to the closest train station, he stopped into a café and ordered a coffee at the counter, inhaling deeply on a second cigarette as he stepped outside. He looked for all the world like a business man just off the train, pausing for a coffee break. The car rental counter was next, and by half past nine he was driving out of Potsdam. Stopping quickly, he pulled into a busy plaza and located a wall telephone.

"My friend, you have a message for me?" He listened carefully. He had a location for her; she was expected to be at the Leipzig University during the lunch hour. Red glanced at his watch, estimating he could be there well before. "I'm on the ground and on the way. As for later, I was thinking Amsterdam. I'll be in touch. Thank you, my friend."


	2. Chapter 2 - Leipzig

**CHAPTER 2**

It had been a very confusing day so far. Elizabeth Keen had followed the directions precisely to the office of Professor Ulrich Weisman at the Leipzig University, but to no avail. The proper building was easy enough to locate but the long hallway leading to the end, to his office at #10-861, housed a study room turned over to the use of students. That was all. Her German was certainly not adequate enough to inquire discreetly, not without drawing attention to herself as an American. And, as this didn't strike her as a prudent course of action, she exited quietly.

Throughout the day, she had been plagued by a deeper sense of something being amiss. She had to consciously remind herself to refrain from looking over her shoulder, though there was no reason to suspect she was being watched or followed. She shrugged it off as simply a feeling she'd grown accustomed to because she'd felt it, accurately as it turned out, for so long.

She noticed there was a great deal of activity in the area and it was far more populated than she had anticipated. As the lunch hour began, it was clear that a festival of some sort was being prepped for; with assorted booths and small stages being erected along Universitätsstraße. Students, professors, workers, and business professionals alike walked up and down the boulevards around the University, enjoying themselves in cafes and restaurants. The atmosphere was energetic and jovial and it was contagious to her; she smiled as she strolled, unhurried.

She stopped in the busy Cafe Barbakane for lunch and coffee, immediately being taken in by the beauty of the old place. Healthy green vines growing colorfully over old brick stonework; an interesting study in contrasts as the 142.5 meter City-Hochhaus Leipzig building hovered above in the sky. Behind her, a gorgeous park stretched for some distance and, though she could hear the sound of traffic, no roadway was visible through the lushness of the trees in the park. The server had assessed her as an American and had kindly brought her an English language newspaper to browse though. Skipping the heavy news, she went right to the book reviews in the entertainment section. Settling in and relaxing, she leisurely enjoyed her delicious meal.

After lunch, she called and left a message for Professor Weisman, unconcerned about the absence of his office but hoping to still have the opportunity to speak with him during her visit. She had met him in her fourth year at Quantico and had followed his papers since, being interested in his theories of profiling. He was an older gentleman, having been raised in communist-era East Germany before the wall came down, which made his perspective both unique and challenging.

She strolled along Schillerstraße, heading towards the Pleissenburg, a 13th century building rich with history. It was now a Town Hall, but it was the architecture she wished to see most. Crossing to Markgrafenstraße, she became aware of an elevated sound of noise behind her, eventually pausing and turning to glance back just as several official police vehicles pulled into the area behind her, moving towards the festival area.

Suddenly, an ear-splitting noise burst forth followed by the fierce concussion blast of a bomb that sent her into a protective crouch against the ground. Another reverberating concussion occurred as a second bomb detonated. She crawled quickly to the closest cover available, just the frame of a brick entry door, as dust and debris hurtled past, hitting parked cars and shattering windows. She yanked on the door handle to escape the street but it was firmly locked.

Her surroundings had turned into complete chaos in mere moments; the air infused with the acrid odor of fumes and fire. Sirens were screaming as pieces of festival banners and plywood rained down on the street. Yells and screams filled the air and it quickly became impossible to separate the noises one from the other; until she heard the staccato of gunfire shots ringing out. Her attention rose to that above all else and her hand went instinctively to her holster and returned empty. She was traveling as a tourist and without a weapon.

People began to frantically race past and, too late, she realized she was quickly being engulfed in the middle of an unpredictable, frightened mob, with many more people, expressions of terror on their faces. She stood and tucked into the doorway tightly but was soon shoved by sheer mass out of the doorway and against the side of the building, having great difficulty staying on her feet. She was forced to begin running or face being trampled. From deep within, she cried out for help, and later, oddly, she would realize whom she had thought of.

Gunfire sounded out again, and the crowd surged powerfully; it was all she could do to stay in the stream of fleeing people. Burgplatz was ahead, she remembered from her map, a plaza that branched off into several different directions. Instinctively, she scanned for a thinning point in the crowd as she ran but saw no path open to her to disengage. She paused, barely, and the fleeing mob knocked her about haphazardly; each hit brought her closer to losing both her speed and footing, bringing her closer to being thrown to the ground. A hard hit connected with her head and dazed her. She tried desperately to steady herself, feeling and dreading the loss of her balance as it happened; in slow motion, like a car crash. Inevitably, she went down to one knee when, to her absolute astonishment, an iron grip closed around her arm, just above the elbow, and held her steady.

Her eyes shot in surprise to her arm and the strong hand locked fast to her but was unable to see further, to see who was helping her. Quickly, she used the leverage of this strong, steadfast grip and raised herself to her feet. She was pulled firmly into a protective circle; the crowd colliding against her sudden protector from behind. She clutched to the lapel of the stranger's coat, unable now to see from her left eye. The coat wrapped around her from the side along with a firm, guiding arm. She hunkered in and moved in response as a fleeting sense of a familiar aroma touched her and then was gone.

And then, as quickly as it had began, it was over. She was free of the crowd and being held up in a standing position, her back against a wall. She heard a voice yelling over the immense noise and chaos, "Are you hurt?"

The sense of familiarity touched her fleetingly once more. Her eyes were wet, she could not see, and the metallic smell of blood was thick in her nostrils. It was hers, she knew. Panic was rising up in her chest and quickly taking hold of her. Her hands were pushed away from her face, her eyes being wiped at with a cloth, as the same question was yelled to her again.

"Are you hurt?"

_What was happening?_

"Are you badly hurt? Don't think about your eyes right now," the loud instructions were stern, demanding, " Take stock of your body, feel your legs, feel your arms, your abdomen. Then say yes or say no. Answer me now!" She followed the order, taking stock mentally; and as she began to nod the formerly calm voice shouted at her in alarm, "_For God's sake, answer me, Lizzie!"  
_

Relief washed over her instantly and she simply collapsed completely into Red, embracing him tightly. He blinked in surprise, then his eyes closed as his arms went around her in return. He felt her breathing against him and every moment of difficulty in locating her simply dissipated like a mist of breath in cold night air. She was safe now, thank God. He gave her a reassuring squeeze and moved one hand up, covering her eyelids with his fingers. "Don't open your eyes yet." She held onto him even more tightly, melting further into him, into the safety and warmth of Raymond Reddington. They stood there for several minutes, clutching one another in both relief and a certain desperation.

He could have stood there indefinitely, holding her, but there was the immediate need to attend to her eyes. "Lizzie, lean your head back." he instructed her as he began to part from her, using saliva on his handkerchief as he continued once more to wipe blood from her eyes, "you have quite a nasty cut on your head." He paused, ripping the cloth in half, and took her hand, closing her fingers around one portion and guiding it to her head, "Here, hold that there and apply pressure." After another moment he studied his work briefly and, satisfied, said, "Try opening your eyes now."

She opened her eyes, blinking, and saw his serious expression appraising her, awaiting her response. She never imagined his face would be such a sight for sore eyes.

"I'm alright. I can see." She flashed a smile that went perfectly with those liquid blue eyes of hers.

He nodded in reply, then leaned in and kissed each eyelid gently, "To _my great and everlasting relief. _My God, but you are a difficult woman to locate." She frowned, and he could see the questions already forming in her mind and moving to her lips.

"I really _must insist_ we address questions later," he gestured at the general mayhem around him, "This is certainly not the ideal place to be at the moment." Her reply was an emphatic nod of agreement.

"I have a car nearby. How's your German?" She shook her head in the negative, her frown wrinkle deepening.

"That bad? Then allow me to do the talking for the both of us. You just-"

"Look like a damsel in distress?"

He chuckled at the irony as she was anything but; a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Yes, try that."

"Maybe we need to go to the American consulate-" his glance stopped her mid-sentence.

"Your naiveté is, as ever, charming. Come along, we're this way. And for Heaven's sake, do stay close to me."


	3. Chapter 3 - En Route Hanover

**I really_ appreciate _the reviews! It's keeping me going on this story. I had no idea it would be so well-received. I'm shocked and grinning at the same time. Thanks again! More dialogue in this one, I hope it rings true to the characters. I hope you enjoy.**

**CHAPTER 3**

Once back to his rental car, they quickly climbed in and he paused at length, looking at her intensely. She glanced at him and found his expression disconcerting but as unreadable as usual. She had a whirlwind of questions ready to spill forth, but she waited instead, smiling. It was so very, very good to see him.

"I'm having a rare emotional moment, Lizzie," he confessed, "let me just say I'm _immeasurably _relieved to have you safe with me," he reached over, his hand closing warmly over hers.

She squeezed his hand, her other hand clasping the top of his with a rub against his warm, smooth skin. His eyebrow shot up at the electricity in her touch, astounded by the unexpected revelation of the strength of his attraction for her. He'd been aware of this previously, of course. Lizzie was an exceptional woman; beautiful, vibrant, engaging, intelligent; her unpredictable nature challenging, to say the least. It was quite natural to be attracted to her; but to this degree?

"Where'd you go?" she asked and he raised his eyes to search her face. He gave no verbal response for a moment though he was aware that his micro-expression, his tell; the small twitch under his eye, had flashed involuntarily.

"Nowhere, Lizzie sweetheart, I'm right here," he reassured her softly.

"Do you know what happened out there?" she asked, "The explosion? There was gunfire."

"Yes, I heard it all, too, " he frowned slightly, "You're not asking if_ I_ had something to do with... with _that_?"

She shrugged, then gave a quick nod.

"No, of course not! It's terrible, just _horrific _to see relatively innocent people being maimed and killed arbitrarily. It's certainly not_ my_ doing... why, it's not even my _style._ Surely you must know this by now? I prefer my dealings face to face."

"You're here just for me?"

"Yes, of course. You sound surprised and yet you should not be so in the least," he paused for a moment, reluctantly removing his hand from hers to start the engine, "You were in danger and here I am, as promised. I keep my promises, Lizzie. Now, tell me the name of your lodgings. Time is of the essence."

"I'm at the Marriott."

He rolled his eyes, "You're_ joking,_ right? Please tell me you're joking."

"No joke, it's the Marriott. _Thank you for being here, Red_" she said, reaching out and placing her hand on his arm.

"You're most welcome, Lizzie. As always, I'm at your service. But, honestly, do you mean to tell me that you traveled all the way to Europe, to _Germany_, to another culture _entirely_, and you stayed in an _American_ hotel? Tell me you did _n_ot order a cheeseburger. Lie to me if you must, I can't bear it."

"I thought time was of the essence?"

"Do you need to go back for anything?"

"I left my suitcase there... clothes, laptop, that sort of thing."

"Passport?"

"It's in the room safe."

He had the vehicle in gear before she finished speaking, "Direct me," he instructed, pulling out onto the street.

* * *

In five minutes, he pulled the car into a street parking space and left her in the locked car, her room and safe key in his pocket. He tapped on the window fifteen minutes later and she unlocked the car. Dropping her items into the backseat, he handed her passport over, then pulled his backpack out of the trunk before climbing back in, dropping it and a small paper bag onto the passenger floor. Pulling into the street he silenced the question on her lips with a hand gesture and a quick glance into the rearview mirror. She understood he was watchful of being followed.

"Lizzie, quickly, disable any possible tracking on your laptop and any another... whatnots."

"You mean peripherals?', she chuckled and turned to her suitcase in the backseat, pulling out the laptop as she reached into her pocket for her cell phone. "My cell phone, it's gone-"

"And trampled to bits back in Burgplatz, my dear. Along with myself, I'm afraid. My neck is just killing me."

She tapped his shoulder and held out two aspirin to him, a bottle of water waiting for him in the other hand; her eyes on the laptop balanced on her knee. He popped the aspirin into his mouth and took the water; glancing at her as he drove, her free hands now turned immediately to her task. Downing the bottle of water, he tossed it behind him, his eyes continually going back to her, observing as he drove. After a few minutes he reached over, disturbing her task; his hand brushed along the side of her face as he took a firm hold of her head, his fingers threading into her hair as he tilted her head to the side, studying her injury. She opened her mouth to protest but was too startled to formulate words. His touch was both gentle and demanding; observational and somehow intimate; the feel of the contact taking her completely off-guard.

"You should take some of those, too. You're going to have a _monster _of a headache soon," he said, referring to the aspirin, and released her. She could still feel his touch, his fingers in her hair, and found it difficult to shake off the hypnotic effect.

"I already did, and already do."

"Oh," he remarked lightly, "you're handling it well. I'm a _bear _with a headache. In the bag there, I picked up some antiseptic. Gauze and bandages in the backpack. Careful, there's a loaded weapon."

"Where are we going?"

"We'll be in Hanover in approximately two hours," he pointed down to the floor sternly, "Laptop, then antiseptic."

* * *

She dozed off soon after cleaning and bandaging her head, curled up in his wool overcoat, and he let her sleep. He stopped about twenty minutes outside of Hanover, pulling over to a bakery and returning with beverages and food.

He leaned over towards her and shook her gently, whispering, "Lizzie, sweetheart, time to wake up." She stirred, pleased to hear his voice, to feel his nearness to her. She opened her eyes and he smiled his soft smile that seemed reserved especially for her, "Ah, there she is."

"Where are we?" she whispered drowsily.

"Oh, just outside of Hanover. Far from home but perfectly safe. Are you hungry? I brought you some Brötchen and apple strudels."

"What is Brötchen?"

"Excellent pronunciation," he noted encouragingly, "it's just a breakfast roll, crusty on the outside. Sit up, eat. Here's your tea," he handed her a warm cup and they ate and drank in a companionable silence.

As she was finishing, he pulled out the disposable cell phone and contacted Dembe. The exit plan was in place and he listened carefully to the instructions, thanked his friend at the end of the call, then opened the door and crushed the cell phone under his boot, kicking the pieces in different directions.

* * *

"Absolutely _everyone _is looking for you, Lizzie. Your people, my people, other people, and then some other _other _people. I've nearly lost track. There were some issues with your people, an attack of some sort. Don't fret, everyone's fine, however chaos has descended like a vulture. The scrambling, the loss of their imaginary control... My God, it is _immensely_ entertaining to observe at times. Other times, not so much." He let out one of his soft barks of laughter, glanced at her, and noted her deeply serious expression.

"I've digressed," he agreed, "to continue, the source is unknown as yet, but all the excitement coincided with your departure."

"But I'm not working, I just flew here to meet with Professor Weisman at Leipzig University."

"The communist profiler?" Red looked startled.

"He was at Quantico in my final year. I corresponded with him a few times since and we agreed to meet at his office today but his office simply wasn't there."

"What do you mean, not there? Please explain."

"The directions were wrong, or the office number. It was just a study room for students."

"Well, that is just fifty shades of odd, Lizzie. He's with_ your_ people. He arrived Tuesday last according to dear Donald. Positively _intriguing_ bit of information, don't you think?"

Pausing thoughtfully, she looked at him squarely, a playful smile on her face, "Yes, it is _intriguing._ Did you _read_ that book?"

"I _swear_ to you, Lizzie, it _sucked _me right in. I could _not_ help myself. It was _absolute trash_."

"So you hated it?"

He barked with laughter, "Are you kidding? _I adored _it_. _Didn't you?"

"I haven't read them."

"Oh, what a shame. Would you like me to entertain you with some of the more sordid details?"

"If we could get back to the Post Office and Weisman?"

"Oh, right. _That._ Well, now we have the events of today. Odd happenings, wouldn't you say? You're being set up for something, my dear. I don't know what yet, but it will become clear soon enough. I'd like to get you back home as quickly as possible. The general idea seems to be that you are to be found in Prague."

"I _was_ in Prague."

"Without me? Then you missed _all_ the best of it. Really, Lizzie, I must insist you refrain from further international travels without me."

"How did you find me?"

"I can't _bear it_. I'm picturing you right now, at that _godawful_ Marriott in Prague, and it just makes my skin _crawl_. Not you, sweetheart, the _hotel_. If you want to have a good time it means getting off the beaten path. Hostels before hotels, remember that."

"How did you find me?" she asked again.

"No more foreign countries without me. Promise me_ that_, Lizzie."

"Red, if everyone is looking for me, how is it that you found me?"

"Oh, Lizzie,_ please_," he eyes quickly locked onto hers, "I've told you this. I will _always_ find you."

She paused a moment, looking him over carefully. "So I'm in danger?"

"No," he laughed, "you're with me."


	4. Chapter 4 - Crowne Plaza, Hannover

**Thanks again for the kind reviews! I really have been working on this, always helpful to get feedback to be sure I'm staying in character, although trying to explore and stretch just a little bit. I have Chapter 5 ready to post right after this... I hope this is enjoyed. I do actually have a plot, but it's totally secondary to exploring the relationship. I don't own any of this, of course. **

**CHAPTER 4**

It was after dark when he pulled up to the Crowne Plaza, Hannover. She looked at the hotel and back to him, astonished by their location, assuming they had been headed to some out of the way place that he always seemed to have at his disposal. He handed her a passport with a wink. She took it and opened it, doubly astonished to see her face on an British passport giving her name as Sara Elizabeth Holcomb. Liz turned to protest but he had retrieved his small backpack and was already out of the car, the valet approaching him. Red walked around the car and opened the passenger door for her, leaning down and looking in at her expectantly, giving her a curt nod in the direction of the hotel. Turning casually, he spoke a few words of fluent German to the valet, and then, with her now out of the car, he placed a guiding hand at the small of her back as they walked inside.

The hotel was impressive to say the least. He guided her expertly through the lobby, noticing the admiring glances in her direction. How amusing, he thought, that she was utterly unaware of her beauty and the attentions it brought. Her eyes were on the hotel, not seeming to notice a single man.

"Lizzie, really, you mustn't gawk."

"It's beautiful, Red. Maybe you should try to see it from my viewpoint. I've not had the pleasure of such places as you have."

"Point taken. However, just because you haven't, doesn't mean you shouldn't. You belong here as much as you do in the coffee shop down your street. Now, take my arm, look tired, and hand me the correct passport when I ask for it."

She nodded, slipping her arm through his as they approached the front desk.

Transitioning once more into fluent German, he checked into their reservation. The attendant greeted her as well and she smiled, then leaned into him with a yawn and nestled against his shoulder, playing the part assigned to her effortlessly. Besides, he had that wonderful smell to him, and he _felt_ warm. He reached towards her inner blazer pocket, the gesture indicating an intimate, comfortable couple; and she slipped it out and passed it to him without a word. A few moments later, he handed the passport back to her and turned to the concierge waiting to lead them to their suite.

"Shall we, my dear?"

Once the concierge removed himself from the suite, she took in their surroundings, finding it positively decadent compared to her previous lodgings. She noted that there was but one bed, though large and roomy, and she avoided looking at him for the moment, feeling flustered. The thought of sharing a bed with him, even for sleep, gave her the feeling of butterflies in the stomach. _Knock it off, Liz,_ she thought to herself.

It was just after six in the evening and Red felt bruised, sore and tired. He busied himself with his packed clothing, readying what he would send out to be cleaned and pressed.

"If you have any garments to send out for cleaning and pressing, Lizzie," he suggested absently as he checked the small refrigerator and removed a bottle of Pellegrino water, pouring it into a glass and drinking from it. He then called down on the room telephone, arranging reservations for dinner at nine in the hotel restaurant. She'd enjoy it, he thought, as long as she refrained from ordering American cuisine.

It was then that he finally paused and glanced at her, seeing her still standing there, staring at the solitary bed.

"Oh, come now, don't look so deflated. There's a sofa bed," he remarked as he pulled off his overcoat.

She turned to him, "Oh no, it's not that. I mean, I'm fine. I-" She stopped, at a loss for words.

He tossed his overcoat on the sofa and stepped towards her, head cocked to one side, studying her, until he stood with his body inches from hers; a challenging move directly into her personal space. Her eyes grew large at the intrusion, further flustering her ability to find words.

"Cat got your tongue? Out with it, sweetheart. I don't have all night."

Their eyes locked and, after a long moment, he tilted his head to the other side; his jaw working back and forth as if about to say something of importance but he remained silent instead. A small smile played on his lips, his eyes expectantly waiting for her to speak.

His eyebrows lifted, "No? Nothing to say after all?" He turned away from her, laughing, and stepped towards the closet, slipping off his suit jacket. She remained tongue tied until the moment he turned back around.

"You're bleeding," she said as she quickly crossed the short distance to him. He glanced down and noticed the blood on his left side.

"Oh, damn, and a new shirt, too. Would you look at that?" he said with a touch of exasperation.

"Red, what happened?" Her fingers were already unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom up and a mischievous smile touched his lips.

"Lizzie, my dearest, I really do prefer to be _kissed_ first, then groped. Do you know _nothing _of foreplay?"

She tugged his tucked-in shirt out of his trouser waist and he chuckled, "Unless you'd like to start unbuttoning me from lower down. Here," he reached for his belt buckle, "I'm happy to assist-"

"Red!" She slapped his hand away without a trace of amusement and he ceased his mischief; her concern for his well-being touching. She angled him back towards the bathroom and he allowed her to guide him to the sink.

Inside the bathroom, she pulled the layered shirt underneath up with his dress shirt and gave a gasp. He looked down at the wound and shook his head; now disappointed that he had concerned her to such a degree.

"Lizzie, no gasping. It's relatively minor. A broken stitch, nothing more."

"You have _stitches_? When did this happen?"

"Last night. I believe I mentioned earlier today what a difficult woman you are to locate. It wasn't without its hazards."

"I would think you could have mentioned _this_," she looked at him, almost with anger, he noticed, as she instructed him firmly, "wash that thoroughly right now. I'll get your bag."

He nodded his assent and began to remove his tie, then finished unbuttoning his dress shirt up to the collar, removing it along with the long sleeved undershirt. He shrugged back into his unbuttoned dress shirt as she returned. With an almost imperceptible wince of pain, he pressed a warm, wet washcloth to his side.

"Stop," she ordered, motioning to the side of the bathtub, "sit." He obeyed her and she moved to remove his dress shirt but he clasped her hand briefly, shaking his head in the negative.

"Leave it."

She nodded, finding it curious but not enough to pursue. Liz made a pitiful sound in the back of her throat when she saw the large bruise along his ribs, joined now by an assortment of other bruises from the crowd hitting against him. It wasn't just that, however, but the assortment of various scars that made clear the pains he'd undergone thus far in his life. One particular scar troubled her as she'd seen a similar injury on torture victims in the past. Victims that had not lived through the torture. Doing her best to conceal her reaction, she ran her hands along his ribs, expertly searching for any serious injuries. He started at her touch, her fingers cold against his skin. Inwardly, she smiled at his flinch, yet enjoyed the feel of his skin; pale and smooth, warm beneath her fingers. He clearly cared for himself well; his body had the litheness of an athlete, similar to that of a swimmer; clearly defined muscles but not overly so; a fluidness to his form that explained his natural agility.

She took the washcloth from him and ran hot water over it, wringing it out and crouching down in front of him, carefully wiping dried blood from the wound. His fondness for rich food showed in a slightly softer stomach, but he made no movements to sit up straighter, no indications of the vanity a younger man might show in her presence. Lizzie had a million thoughts swimming around in her mind about him; it was mesmerizing being in such close proximity to him. He was hurt, he was tired, and he was vulnerable. Quite possibly, only to her.

"Lizzie, did you hear me? It's not necessary to baby me. I've handled far worse on my own."

She held up a hand, not even sparing him a glance, and said simply, "Hush."

When she finished cleaning the wound, she inspected the stitches, then moved her fingers to the ribs, saying, "Tell me when it hurts."

He remained silent, despite the painful probing she did, until she finally pressed in quite hard and he responded with an emotionless, "Ouch."

"Finally," she remarked, "apparently you feel pain after all. No fractures, not that I can feel. But these stitches need to be replaced."

"I'll take care of it."

"Not while I'm here. Not a chance, mister. Grab a towel and follow me."

"Well, now that _is_ bossy."

"_Now_."


	5. Chapter 5 - Crowne Plaza Suite

**I start a new job tomorrow so this may be it for a bit. I'll get back to work on it asap. Reviews have been HUGELY appreciated. Really! I grin and can't wait to get back to the story, thinking you guys might be waiting for more. :) So you know, feel free to keep the reviews coming, even if you repeat yourself. It really _really_ keeps me motivated. No thanks on my end could be enough!**

**CHAPTER 5**

Red followed her deferentially out of the bathroom, obeying her pointed gestures and laying down on the bed with a towel under his side, feeling oddly exposed in front of her. He shrugged it off as he appreciated the comfort of the luxurious mattress underneath his bruised body. Liz set herself down at his left side, setting to the work before her; carefully removing the torn stitches, cleaning the wound with hot water soapy water from an ice bucket, then rinsing him cleanly before applying antiseptic. He lay still and watched her, entranced, occasionally closing his eyes, but more often watching her at work on him. Her eyes focused attentively as she began to stitch, the concentration wrinkle between her eyebrows creased deeply. While the stitches weren't pleasant, he found that it did feel pleasant having her care for him as she was. Why did she affect him so at the most unexpected of moments?

Liz was quite taken aback to see the injuries he'd sustained without so much as a mention or complaint. It was in her nature to steady herself by taking action. His abdomen held a decent amount of scars, some definable as knife or gunshot wounds, others undecipherable. She avoided the recognized scar, she didn't even want to think about the excruciating pain that would have caused him. Lizzie tried not to openly admire the look of him as he lay there on the bed, serenely surrendered to her; trusting her.

He seemed about to doze off when she finished the last stitch however his hand moved over to her wrist and he looked up at her, his eyes sincere and serious; silently conveying gratitude. She nodded in a silent reply, reaching for a bandage as her eyes happened to fall on the right side of his neck, noticing the scar_ she_ had left on him when she had stabbed him in his carotid artery. She pushed the thought from her mind with difficulty. None of this was lost to him, observing her as he was.

"You're going to need an antibiotic."

"In the black bag."

With a curious expression, she opened his toiletries bag and, sure enough, it contained a vial of penicillin with two tiny hypodermic needles. Her eyes flashed back to him, her expression grim.

"This hasn't been used." Her tone accusatory.

"No."

"Why didn't you use this?"

"I didn't know if..." he trailed off, catching that slightly angry expression again, not knowing quite how to address his thoughts without offending her. "I, well, you..."

"Out with it. I haven't got all night,_ sweetheart_." She said, mimicking him sarcastically from earlier, already suspecting the answer and finding herself irritated.

"I _am_ aware that you are more than capable of looking after yourself. However, based upon _my _experiences thus far on this trip, there existed the possibility, however remote-"

"That I may have needed it, so you didn't use it."

"Yes."

She had prepped a needle with the antibiotic and now stuck it into his shoulder without warning, thumbing the plunger quickly.

"Ouch!" With emotion, this time, and she was satisfied.

Lizzie moved to stand up but his hand was on her arm in a flash, pulling her back down as he sat up in one swift movement; a movement she wouldn't have thought he was capable of with his injuries. His face was inches from hers, his eyes locked onto hers.

"_Your _well being and safety, _that's_ my priority. I would think this would be _crystal clear_ at this point. Is there some reason, something that has eluded me, that is causing you to imagine otherwise? Because, please, _do tell me_ if this is the case so that I may correct it at once." She didn't answer him, averting her eyes.

With his hand to her chin, he raised her face, insisting on eye contact, "You were trying to decipher my assorted scars earlier, Lizzie. Listen to me carefully, dear. I can tell you the origin of each and every one. Additionally, I can tell you the consequences meted out in return for each."

Lizzie desperately wanted to extricate herself from this suddenly intense encounter, sensing she was in dangerous territory with him. This was suddenly not the Red that had a soft, special smile reserved just for her; the Red that took care of her, who was both the seen and unseen protector at work in her life. This was Raymond Reddington now; the criminal with the dangerous monster barely concealed within, a monster capable of terrible things without any apparent remorse.

Speaking in a soft but cautionary tone, he continued, "There is only one scar that should concern you," he lifted her right hand, her scarred hand, and placed it firmly against the right side of his neck; holding her fierce scar against the scar inflicted on him, by her, in a fit of both rage and helplessness. Her scar tingled against his, feeling at once too intimate, and also strangely... _erotic_. It was just too much and, unable to breath, she tried to move her hand away but his grip held firm, allowing her no reprieve.

_That night_, she dreaded the memory. She had burst into his hotel room, demanding answers from him and he had remained maddeningly composed, infuriating her further while her husband had lain in a coma in the hospital, courtesy of Red's first 'Blacklister'. "_Calm down and tell me what happened," _he had ordered her that night, dropping his crossword puzzle and pen down on his dinner table nonchalantly; and she had completely lost control. And yet, she secretly knew, and _he knew,_ she hadn't lost control, not completely. She had seen that pen and knew what she was going to do before her hand had ever reached it. She had calculated the move, she wanted answers and an unpredictable move was the only one that would illicit the response she sought. And yet, with him, it hadn't worked but failed completely. He had remained unruffled throughout, his blood flowing out of him, his consciousness fluttering precariously, and yet his only reply had been to cast doubt upon her husband. In fact, he had given her a crucial piece of information in that moment, his first warning of the truths that would later follow. He had adapted _that_ quickly.

And he; how often he had stared at that scar in the mirror, just high enough to disturb the perfect line of a well- tailored shirt collar. At first, he despised the scar, and yet, he had simultaneously cherished the scar. He had very nearly lost his temper several times; his eye catching on the imperfection in a random mirror somewhere and he would find himself riveted, staring at his own neck, and subsequently fighting with himself to regain his inner composure. He would do _anything_ to keep her alive, and yet she had so carelessly and blatantly endangered his own life. His real source of anger being that, without him alive, there was no one to perform the task in his place. He hadn't had to resort to conscientious meditation techniques for years, not until introducing himself to the very real Elizabeth Keen. The scar, the memory of the act, had been filled with both rage and an intimacy that had surprised him. Even _he_ had underestimated her; the thought of which caused him to both grimace and to laugh smugly, feeling a certain pride in her. She had it, too. Not from a family line, not from an inherited trait, but it was there just as his was; the **fire in the blood.**

Gradually, her finger felt the raised scar, then the smoothness of it, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod of acquiescence. He dropped his hand; hers now remaining, gentle fingers now tracing the outline of the scar, exploring it as she'd wanted to do so many, many times. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes on his neck now, and he responded by turning his head to the side, exposing his neck completely to her. Liz became acutely aware now, not just of the scar, but of his openness to her. She brushed her scar over his and felt her breath catch in her throat as his eyes slid shut. She wanted to taste the skin of his neck, place her mouth there and feel the scar beneath her tongue. The closeness of the moment was charged with electricity; with both danger and warmth. The nearness of him was exhilarating, the smell of him like a mixture of fine linen, cigars, and the faint aroma of sandalwood. Distinctive, warm, smooth, and immensely intoxicating.

Eventually, his hand returned to hers, breaking the touch, as if to say, '_That's enough." _

He turned his head back, his eyes no longer hard, the connection to her now having grown exceptionally strong.

"You have never been in danger of facing consequences for that, Lizzie," he said softly, "and you never will."

Her eyes focused on his lips, still hearing the vibration of his voice tickling her ears. She imagined closing the distance, placing her lips against his, feeling his response to her. What would_ his_ response be?

"I was angry." She said, absently, without thinking of her words.

"No. You were on _fire_," he took her hand, turning it over, and pressed his thumb over her scar and against a prominent blue vein on her wrist, "here."

She swallowed hard, then nodded, looking with both confusion and alarm into his steady gaze.

"How do you know about that?" She asked breathlessly.

"It's not important." He released her wrist and leaned back slightly, placing some distance between them.

"It's important _to me_."

He chuckled softly, "Take care that you truly want the answers to your questions."

"How do you know?_ Tell me."_

"Really, Lizzie, this is quite backwards. Where are the negotiations that typically precede these transactions? You make some sort of stipulation so that I will provide an answer to a question of your choice."

"Fine, ask me a question. I'll answer."

"I don't have any questions for you, my dear," he chuckled, then raised an eyebrow as he continued, "I'd be willing to exchange _my _answer for an _action_ on your part."

"What is it you want me to do?"

"Your rules, as you made them, dear. I'm not privy to the question beforehand." He let the implication hang in the air. A risk with him, true, but her decision nonetheless.

It would be wiser to let it go, she knew. He was too unpredictable, but then she recalled of the smoothness of his scar, his thumb pressed to her wrist. And then, remembering her awareness of that pen as a weapon even as she shouted at him for answers, formulating her plan while being both aware and unaware of what she was doing. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge that part of herself and yet she was confronted with it time and again, always surprising her after the fact. In all her time of studying profiling, she had yet to discover an answer to this lasting question about herself. She had never spoken of it, not once to any other living soul.

"How do I know we're referring to the same thing?" She probed, somehow hoping for a misunderstanding.

He leveled her with a frank look, "Oh, I think _you know_ we are."

"I didn't plan to-"

"Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, we have a deal."

"Spell it out for me then. Ask your question."

"How do you know about..." she swallowed hard, "_that _part of me?"

"Allow me to begin with some clarification, to be certain I'm addressing this... _inquiry_... to your satisfaction. Your fondness for hotel rooms and pens in people's necks... well, I like to think I was your _first_, Lizzie. You were angry and emotional, you certainly didn't _appear_ to be behaving reasonably. And yet, you planned it nonetheless; on the fly. We both know that, don't we?"

"Yes, I guess we do." She agreed, eyebrows raised.

"Very well, as long as we're on the same page here, I simply must tell you, I was absolutely _fascinated _by you, my dear. I didn't realize it until I sat there, holding your hand to my neck with that damn pen-."

"You didn't realize what?"

"Don't interrupt. It became clear to me that you _planned _an unpredictable move. And you did so most admirably, too. In the midst of rage and helplessness, you, my dear Lizzie, had the presence of mind to_ plan,_ and to do so quite precisely. It was both cunning and wholly unpredictable. If it hadn't been _my _carotid artery, I would have approved of the move wholeheartedly. Without question, it would been effective on almost _anyone_ else."

"But not on _you_."

He laughed, shaking his head at her, "Of course not." His amusement began to touch on her anger.

"It wasn't the first time that I... had a moment like that."

He returned to closer proximity with her, "No, it wasn't. You've been having this experience for as long as you can remember. It frightens you, Lizzie, doesn't it?"

"Very much."

"Well, it shouldn't. It is uniquely you, after all. You're in control of it, not the other way around. I know you wish to understand yourself, and this part _most _of all. Perhaps it's just there, have you thought of that? A tool at your disposal, nothing more. After all, does it not give you a confidence you wouldn't otherwise possess? You're able to turn complicated situations to your advantage, and _that _is an invaluable asset." He turned her hand over in his again, stroking her scar.

"I've never told you," she whispered.

He laughed softly again, "No, of course you haven't. You didn't even tell Sam, and he was the only other one whom you _could _have told."

"Then how _do _you know about it?"

"How could I not?" he chuckled, "You use it for the FBI. Me, I have more... nefarious purposes."

His face already inches from hers, he moved in closer still; leaning in he whispered into her ear, challenging her, "But tell me, Lizzie, does it help you, using it in your work? Does it make you feel better about yourself? Less like you have a _criminal_ element inside of you?"

She leaned back, looking at him, flaring with anger now.

"So I inherited it?," she shot back.

Another one of his maddening chuckles. "How on earth would_ I_ know? I only _recognized _it for what it was."

"But if we have the same trait, you and I both..."

His expression darkened dangerously fast.

"Look at me," he ordered, now clearly agitated, taking her chin in his hand sternly to ensure eye contact, "and pay _very close_ attention this time. I am not accustomed to repeating myself. We are not related in the familial sense of the word. Is that clear?"

She locked her eyes onto his without wavering, "No, it's not clear. Not at all. How do you know so much about me? Tell me that," she challenged him, "I understand that you have the access to find out almost anything. But me? I'm just an obscure girl from the Midwest with an iffy past. Yes, I joined the FBI, along with _thousands_ of others. I'm a drop in the bucket, a small fish in an enormous pond. No mystery there. But my life, my past, the details, _you_ seem to know _all _of it. You've told me you know more about me than I do. Only a relation would-"

And he kissed her, hard and forceful; insistently parting her lips under the force of his; his hand gripping the back of her neck, pulling her into the rough kiss harder, crushing their lips together. His tongue was warm and consuming, not flicking or teasing but fully meeting hers without artifice, with an unrestrained sensuality that allowed neither of them the least room to hide. His kiss made no attempt to hide his passion for her. His lips were fully a part of his kiss, both soft and severe; his mouth hungrily devouring hers. She met his kiss with sensuality, with a naked hunger that brought a desperate wildness to the kiss. The individual secrecy of their concealed desires now bared to one another; their shared desire now discovered and escalating urgently, reaching for more... then he gripped her upper arm, separating her away from him, breaking the kiss abruptly.

They sat there together with no words, forehead against forehead, breathing heavily. After a time, breathing relaxed, he kissed her hair, lingering.

"You need to rest before dinner," she said softly.

"Yes. Will you wake me at eight?"

"Eight works," she nodded, rising from her seated position on the bed and heading for the shower. With a heavy sigh, his head hit the pillow and he was asleep before she stepped into the shower.


End file.
